


17:  L.A. Is My Lady

by light_source



Series: High Heat [17]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-21
Updated: 2011-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s insane, they’re in the kitchen where they could be seen by anybody, and the lip of the granite counter's pressing into Tim's back, both dishwashers whirring below them, and fuck, it doesn’t matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	17:  L.A. Is My Lady

**July 30, 2007**

When they play the Dodgers, the Giants stay in the old Ritz-Carlton in Pasadena, in the foothills a few miles east of Chavez Ravine.

Zito, however, usually stays at his own place in the Hollywood hills. His contract specifies this entitlement.

Zito loves LA with the blind stubbornness of a native son, even though he was mostly raised south of here, in El Cajon, the southern California of cyclone fences and gang tags and abandoned orange groves. His parents, musicians who eked out a living on the production side of show business, knew early that baseball was the thing that was going to move Barry out and up.

He’d be the first to admit that Los Angeles is more of an idea than a place. It started out as a clutch of small towns that were home to regular people, plumbers and longshoremen and schoolteachers. Now most of the ice-cream-colored bungalows belong to people who work in and around The Industry. The police keep the suburban streets clear of actor/waiters who’re getting by sleeping in their vans. And freeways are the vectors by which people define themselves: the 405, the 134, the 10.

//

\- About seventy-five people, says Zito into the phone. He’s writing something on the back of an envelope. - From Highland and Melrose? Twenty minutes max. And bar staff. So at least three or four.

His housekeeper Maricela’s already been and gone. She flew down from San Francisco yesterday to ready the place for tonight’s party. Now he’s got the catering set as well, it’s being done by this Italian place, Mozza in BH, new and so hot you can’t get a table.

He looks around. Everything’s immaculate, but it needs something - fresh air, maybe? - so Zito slides open the wall of glass doors that look out over the valley. He strolls out onto the saltillo patio, the tile baking his bare feet. Smog’s not too bad today; if he squints he can see Pasadena, the San Gabriels blue-grey in the distance, where the team is.

//

That evening, Tim cabs to Zito’s party with Wilson and Schierholtz and Lowry. Even from the back seat, Tim’s hypnotized by the freeways: twelve lanes of streaming heavy machinery hemmed by a concrete riverbank of car dealerships and stucco shopping malls, spiked with palm trees.

When they’re finally off the 134 and climbing into the foothills, there aren’t any houses at all, just entry gates with video cameras and ivy-covered walls.

\- Fucking movie stars, says Wilson. - I gotta get me some of that.

Whenever they pass a jogger or a dog-walker, Wilson presses his face to the window to get a better look.

\- Dudes, it’s fucking Jennifer Aniston! he shouts.

Tim and Nate know better than to turn around, but Lowry’s pure of heart and he falls for it.

\- Well, she _was_ really pretty, says Noah, piqued, shaking his head.

\- All the women in this town are pretty, says Wilson. -They test ‘em at the city limits, and if they’re not up to code, they send ‘em to the shop and have ‘em worked on. There’s a certain uniformity to them, he continues. - Long blonde hair, dark roots, big boobs, and arms like sticks. And they kind of hiss when they say their s-es. It’s like talking to a leaky balloon. You’ll see.

//

Sure enough, the first two women Tim meets at the party are blonde and tanned and wearing halter dresses that showcase their grapefruit-sized breasts. They’re also both taller than him, and after a little small talk, the one on the left, Breanna, is already looking over Tim’s shoulder, scanning the room for someone more impressive.

Tim doesn’t notice. He’s caught Zito’s eye from across the room.

//

When women compliment Zito on his lovely manners, he always says simply - I had two older sisters. It’s true; they spoiled him and they schooled him, and he was a quick learner. There’s so much more to it than just opening the door for a woman; you have to get there first and fall to the side, your eyes lowered, smiling a little, and then wait a few beats to follow her through, as though you’re not sure you’re worthy. It has to be effortless, so deeply ingrained that you’d do it in your sleep.

Zito’s allure is never more potent than at a big party like this one, where his talent for stopping time charges every conversation with meaning. Everyone he talks to feels utterly understood, like they’re the last sane person left in the world.

//

Zito's dark eyes are sexy, Tim already knows this, but it’s the way his lips part when their eyes meet that sends a surge of desire through him, as though Zito’s suddenly halted, amazed, and offering his mouth to be kissed. They hold the gaze for an instant that stretches. Then Tim has to break away. He’s half-hard and it’s a good thing his shirt’s untucked.

Nate’s snagged Tim a drink, something pale-green and opaque, from one of the tray-carrying waiters. When Nate tilts his head towards the glass doors, Lincecum follows him outside onto the patio, where the air is still warm and lambent.

\- Fucking Wilson’s right, says Tim. - Where do they get these chicks?

\- Central casting, says Nate, smiling. Tim's glad that Nate’s not one of those guys who’s always proclaiming himself ready to fuck anything that walks. Nate seems to have been born old. He works all the time, harder than he needs to, so he can be the five-tool player he wants to be. He’s had the same girlfriend for years, but he won’t marry her until he’s making more than league minimum.

\- Don’t take it personally, says Nate. - Girls like that don’t give a shit about you unless you’re rich and famous.

Nate raises his glass and looks critically at the green stuff. - What is this shit Zito’s given us? he asks. Tim shrugs, and they both laugh, shaking their heads.

\- Here’s to the pleasures of obscurity, says Nate as they toast.

The drink tastes like licorice. Tim’s suddenly thirsty, and he drains it in one go.

//

Zito’s swimming pool is black-bottomed and unlit, with one of those invisible edges that appears to spill over the edge of the hillside. It doesn’t take Tim and Nate long to lose their shoes, roll up their pants, and dip their feet in. As the sun vanishes behind the other side of the house, some of the other guests drift out to join them.

There are pillows out here for them to lounge on, and straw mats to cushion the hard surface of the tile. In the firepit something’s burning that smells like cedar. Waiters keep appearing with trays of drinks and plates of some amazing pizza, charred and flimsy and topped with unlikely but delicious things like fried eggs. Tim thinks he’d be perfectly satisfied if only he didn’t have to keep picking weird vegetables off it.

Tim’s knocked back two more of the green drinks, and someone’s passed around a joint. He lies back on the warm tile of the pool deck, legs danging in the cool water, and watches the stars begin to emerge at the edges of the sky. The conversations around him rise and fall, comfortable, like the sound of a family dinner table. From the house come the tinkling sounds of icy drinks and high heels clicking and a steady throb of bass.

Then the bass stops abruptly, and a faraway clamor of voices rises like a bubble. In the blot of low-frequency quiet that follows, Tim picks out Zito’s voice, and the silvery voice of a woman, emerging from the house.

//

What hits Tim, when he sits up and sees them, is the way Zito’s holding her hand, even though they’re just standing there, and she’s looking at him attentively, her smile fixed and dazzling. Her skin’s satiny, a little darker than her honey-colored hair, and one of the flimsy straps of her dress is halfway off her shoulder.

Zito’s got his fingers twined in hers, casual but definite, and then he pulls out one of the teak chairs for her and settles her in it. He stands behind her, talking to one of the waiters for a moment, and then his attention’s back on her. They’ve lit some torches around the pool now, the smoke softening the edges of the crowd, and through the blur Tim sees Zito put his hands on her shoulders.

She’s talking to someone next to her, but she reaches up and takes one of his hands in hers. When she looks up at him, he’s smiling like he’s finally found what he’s been looking for.

//

Zito’s tired but he’s pleased with the way it’s come together, this party, the first time the team’s been to his new place. The caterers appeared and vanished in precisely the way he likes. As always, leave-taking’s like a virus, one guy starts it and then everybody else jumps up like they’ve been infected by his guilty conscience, so the dance-floor has pretty much cleared out. It’s late, but there’s still a few people out by the pool.

//

Frandsen always brings his dominoes - Pedro and Omar taught him to play and now he’s addicted - and now everyone who’s not actually playing is kibitzing by torchlight, and money has _actually changed hands._

Tim’s sitting back from the group, stretched out on a lounge chair, one knee up, a lit joint in his hand. He takes a deep toke and passes it to Lowry, who’s sitting in front of him, swearing at Wilson, who’s just made a boneheaded move.

Zito ambles over to the side of the group where Tim’s sitting and squats down next to the chaise longue. It’s dark over here, away from the torches; there’s just enough light for him to see the side of Tim’s face, and their eyes meet. Wordlessly Tim passes him the joint, and their hands touch as Zito takes it, puts it to his mouth, and holds his breath. When he releases the smoke through his nostrils, he looks over at Tim again.

The guys are so engrossed in their game that no one seems to notice when Zito rises to his feet. Or when, a few minutes later, Tim gets up, stretching, and walks toward the house.

A few minutes later, after they're gone, Nate’s eyes meet Brian’s and widen almost imperceptibly.

//

It’s insane, they’re in the kitchen where they could be seen by anybody, and the lip of the granite counter's pressing into Tim's back, both dishwashers whirring below them, and fuck, it doesn’t matter. Tim’s got his hands in Zito's pants, all over his cock and his ass, stroking. And Zito’s tongue is darting and teasing in Tim's mouth, and he’s so hard and so hot, and the little sounds in his throat are only making Tim want him more.

//

Later, Tim remembers.

Zito clicking the thumb-turn lock on the door and then leaning up against it, his cock pressing up tantalizingly against his jeans and a very focused smile on his face.

The two of them collapsing together onto the bed, their legs tangled, the strange, unrecognizable sounds coming from his own throat this time.

Tim bracing his forearms against Zito’s chest to break the kiss because he needs to see Zito’s eyes, he needs to get a reckoning on what this is.

But the desire that’s suffusing him becomes a current that moves him effortlessly towards something he needs to do nothing more than feel. Zito’s got his tongue in his mouth and his fingers inside him for what seems like forever, until Tim feels like he’s gonna die if he can’t move against that force, get his hips in motion.

When he finally lowers himself onto Zito’s cock so they can fuck face-to-face, he feels like he’s gonna come just from seeing the expression of astonishment, ecstasy, on Barry’s face. And when leans down for the slowest, dirtiest kiss imaginable, and as Zito thrusts up inside him, crying out - oh, my god, you make me so hot - he knows he’s passed some invisible border that one day will come back to haunt him.

But now, the rhythm is all, and he’s beyond it.


End file.
